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have been mourned like thee. The wise and good Do gather many weepers round their tomb, And true Affection makes her heart an urn For the departed idol, till that heart Is ashes. With such sorrow art thou mourned, And more than this. There is a cry of woe Within the halls of yon majestic dome— A tide of grief, which Reason may not check, Nor Faith's deep anchor fathom. Straining eyes That gaze on vacancy, do search for thee, Whose wand could put to flight the fancied ills Of sick imagination. The wrecked heart Keepeth the echo of thy soothing voice An everlasting sigh within its cells, And morbidly upon that music feeds. Mind's broken column 'mid its ruins bears Thy chiselled features. Thy dark eye looks forth From Memory's watch-tower on the phrenzy dream, Ruling its imagery, or with strange power Controlling madness, as the shepherd's harp Subdued the moody wrath of Israel's king. Even where the links of thought and speech are broke, 'Mid that most absolute and perfect wreck, When throneless Reason flies her idiot-foe, Thou hast a place. The fragments of the soul Do bear thine impress—shadowy, yet endeared,